


je t’aimerai encore

by delayofgame



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Melancholy, Post-2018 NHL Playoffs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 00:58:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16566530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delayofgame/pseuds/delayofgame
Summary: Patrice’s right hand settles on the center console, and Brad reaches out to grab it without really thinking about it. It’s like a reflex, as if the default position is for them to be touching. Patrice intertwines their fingers, his skin warm and fingers calloused from months and months of hard work. Brad has never seen anyone give so much to a team except the man in the car beside him, never met someone so completely and unwaveringly dedicated to something, never loved someone this much and this deeply.Someday, he thinks, it might be okay to feel that way.





	je t’aimerai encore

**Author's Note:**

> this is SO sappy and SO domestic. blame part of it on the fact that i listened to _on brûlera_ by pomme while writing this. 
> 
> more is coming soon. assume that there will only be three chapters but i tend to stretch these things out so we'll see!
> 
> the title means _i will love you again_

Brad has his arm out the open window, the wind cooling his skin and rushing in his ears. The soft, pinkish glow of the sun sinking below the horizon blurs outlines and makes everything seem to blend together. Brad blinks slowly. Patrice is tapping along on the steering wheel to a song on the radio, something about summer nights and rock and roll and various other cliches.

Brad could probably stay like this forever.

They had crossed the border into Canada about an hour ago, and now they find themselves in the part of Quebec that is entirely made up of flat, open fields dotted with the occasional rundown farmhouse and enormous barn. Huge, round hay bales wrapped in white plastic leave long shadows in the setting sun. 

“How far is it now?” Brad asks, reluctantly interrupting the peaceful quiet. He never remembers how long the drive takes. He swears that Patrice takes different, longer routes sometimes just to mess with him. He usually sleeps through it, anyway, so much that the scenery is rarely familiar when he's actually awake. 

“Another hour,” Patrice replies, not looking away from the road.

The dashboard clock reads _7:56_. Brad yawns widely and leans his head against the frame of the window, closing his eyes. The sound of tires against pavement roars in his ears. 

Patrice’s right hand settles on the center console, and Brad reaches out to grab it without really thinking about it. It’s like a reflex, as if the default position is for them to be touching. Though they don’t get to do this for most of the year. Patrice intertwines their fingers, his skin warm and fingers calloused from months and months of hard work. Brad has never seen anyone give so much to a team except the man in the car beside him, never met someone so completely and unwaveringly dedicated to something, never loved someone this much and this deeply. 

Someday, he thinks, it might be okay to feel that way.

The song on the radio changes to something slow and wistful. Patrice squeezes Brad’s hand just a bit tighter. It’s comforting, like Patrice can sense his worry. 

Brad lets out a gentle sigh and lets the wind and the faint sound of the radio lull him to sleep, his hand still holding onto Patrice.

\--

Brad wakes up to the feeling of a hand pushing gently on his shoulder.

“Brad.” Patrice’s voice is soft in his ear. “We’re here.”

Brad rubs his eyes and yawns. It takes him a moment to remember where he is. Through the windshield of the now-stopped car, he sees a warm, yellow glow coming from the porch light of a small cottage. The sky is huge and black and dotted with stars. It’s unreasonably warm as he steps out of the car, almost enough for Brad to pretend that they didn’t have to stop playing hockey until June instead of the disappointing reality of an early-May playoff exit. 

The cottage is only about fifty feet from the lake. The moonlight is bright enough to give a view of the surface of the water, smooth and flat and dark as night. 

Patrice fishes a key out of his pocket when they reach the front door. The cottage belongs to his family, allegedly built by a great-grandfather and passed down through the generations, getting gradual renovations as the family decided that electricity and running water and other modern comforts were necessary additions. Patrice took Brad here for the first time after they won the Cup. Since then, they’ve taken a road trip to it every offseason. 

They lug their bags inside and leave them by the door, under the coat hooks. The cottage is small and cozy. There’s a bedroom, a bathroom with a tiny shower, a kitchenette, and a living space with a faded couch that had been Brad’s designated sleeping space until the night a few years prior when, for the first time, he got into Patrice’s bed and didn’t leave until morning. Now they have a bedroom that they can call _theirs_. Even though it’s hundreds of miles from Boston. Even though they know that they can’t be this version of themselves anywhere outside of the cottage. 

Brad cherishes what they are under this roof.

They settle into their usual routine. Patrice opens each window a few inches, letting the sweet-smelling outside air in. Brad plugs in the refrigerator and dusts the counters. It’s fun to get the cottage up and running for the year, as if they’re welcoming another summer into their lives with open arms. The mousetraps in the bathroom are empty, thankfully, and the lack of water stains on the ceiling indicates that Patrice’s roof repair project the previous summer did its job. 

There’s a box of ramen of unknown origin in the cupboard, and Brad is hungry enough to eat it (after confirming that the expiration date on the package hadn’t already passed). Patrice refuses it, deciding to hold out until breakfast the next morning even though his stomach audibly growls while Brad is eating. 

“We should have bought groceries on the way,” Patrice says. 

Brad shrugs, slurping down the rest of the broth. “Too late now.”

They spend the rest of the evening playing Rummy after Patrice finds a deck of cards in one of the kitchen drawers. It’s competitive, like everything they do, an unavoidable side-effect of being a professional athlete.

After Patrice wins five games in a row, Brad concedes defeat. He stifles a yawn as he helps Patrice shuffle the cards and put them away. The air has cooled significantly since they arrived, and the bed with the quilt comforter hand-stitched by Patrice’s grandmother is suddenly _very_ inviting. They decide to leave the unpacking for the morning, instead starting their usual evening routines.

Brad gets into bed before Patrice does and takes a minute to briefly scroll through the notifications on his phone. He has a few texts from teammates wishing him a good offseason and telling him that he had a good year. He shoots back some brief replies without much emotional weight behind them, unable at this point to really acknowledge the circumstances. He wishes Torey a speedy recovery and tells Zdeno to _say hi to the kids for me_. When he gets an NHL app notification about the Eastern Conference Final, he deletes it. 

He feels the bed dip and looks up, putting his phone on the bedside table. Patrice is wearing a faded _2011 Stanley Cup Champions_ t-shirt and a pair of plaid cotton pants that Brad swears he’s had for over a decade. 

“Don’t sleep in too late, or I’ll leave for breakfast without you,” Patrice says. He settles in under the covers.

“Just wake me up when you’re ready to go, I get ready fast,” Brad replies.

Patrice gives him an amused look. “Easier said than done. You sleep like the dead.”

Brad laughs. It’s so easy, like this, in this place. He leans over and presses kisses along Patrice’s jaw because he can. He settles against Patrice’s side and rests his head on his shoulder to make up for every time that he couldn’t. Patrice shifts to turn the bedside lamp off, then lets out a sigh as he leans into Brad’s touch. 

Brad doesn’t like to fall asleep before Patrice does. He’ll stay up, sleep-hazy but awake enough to remember it in the morning, listening to the way Patrice’s breath gets slow and gentle. Tonight is no different. The moon is shining through the gauzy curtains and it makes Patrice’s skin look silver, his sleep-softened features cast in shadow. 

Brad resists the urge to kiss him again. They have time.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are very much appreciated!


End file.
